


In Love At a Coffee Shop

by oneshinyapple



Category: Fantastic Four (Comicverse), Spider-Man (Comicverse)
Genre: Celebrity AU, Fluff, Implied homophobia, M/M, Romantic Comedy, coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-03-05 17:46:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18833617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneshinyapple/pseuds/oneshinyapple
Summary: Teen pop sensation Johnny Storm stumbles into a coffee shop while escaping from a horde of fans.  Who else should save him but Peter Parker, grumpy barista extraordinaire?Any caffeine addict would probably be just a little bit in love with their coffee dealer, and baristas were just automatically hotter when they were drizzling caramel all over someone’s whipped cream.





	In Love At a Coffee Shop

**Author's Note:**

> Here’s a little something to make up for some delay in my other long fic. There are plenty of minute details I need to iron out much further into the story and don’t want to accidentally write myself into a plot hole. 
> 
> Anyway, have something lighter and easier, for a change <3\. Title is from Landon Pigg’s _Falling In Love At a Coffee Shop_ because I have no title game.

For once, just once, Johnny Storm wished he could go out on a normal shopping trip and not end up in a high speed foot race against a swarm of fans and paparazzi.  Don’t get him wrong — he loved his fans and enjoyed their unwavering attention, but he didn’t need them going crazy every time he so much as managed to cross a street without getting hit by a bus.

He skidded around a corner, nearly bowled over a street performer and skipped over a boom box before risking a glance over his shoulder.  His unwanted entourage hadn’t yet caught up, but he knew it was only a matter of time. Desperate, he ducked into the first shop he saw, yanking his Mets baseball cap down low over his face.

A bell rang over his head and he let the door fall shut before risking a look around. It was a coffee shop treading the fine line between quirky and generic, though Johnny suspected it only avoided the latter by virtue of being a much older establishment.  There were only five people in the small space, including the barista half-hidden by the register behind the counter, wiping up the surface. The latter was the only one who glanced up when he entered, the four customers too absorbed in their books, laptops, and cellphones.

Johnny avoided the barista’s curious gaze and fixed his eyes upon the floor. “Hey. You got a restroom?”

“Oh,” the barista said flatly, not sounding very pleased.  “The building has a common one for all the shops on the ground—”

The rest of what he was saying was abruptly drowned out by excited shouting coming from outside. _Lots_ of shouting.

Johnny flung himself across the entryway and against the counter.   _“Hide me.”_

The man responded to him coolly. “You steal a wallet or something?”

Johnny gave him a dirty look out of the corner of his eye and gestured at his clearly designer, _clearly_ fashionable ensemble (baseball cap not included). “Do I _look_ like a thief?”

He looked Johnny up and down.

The crowd outside was inching closer to the door and Johnny could see some of them peering through the glass.  “Come _on_ , man.  I’ll owe you, like, a _million_.”

“Oh, well, if you’ll _owe_ me,” he said, rolling his eyes.  He jerked his head at the doorway to the kitchen and motioned for Johnny to come over.

“Thank you,” Johnny mouthed, ducking in and out of sight just as the bell jangled again.

He heard the heavy sound of several pairs of feet stomping into the tiny shop and frantically looked around the space he was in.  It was a small kitchen with only the very basic equipment—refrigerator, microwave, simple stove and oven, and two toasters. He suspected they never made anything more complicated than bread, sandwiches, and the occasional salad back here.

“Good afternoon,” his erstwhile savior said with exaggerated cheer behind him. “What can I get you folks today?”

There was a door at the other end of the room, Johnny noted, but he’d have to pass in front of the open doorway to the main floor.  He dismissed that option and looked around again.

The window. There was a window two feet above the sink. It was a bit narrow, but Johnny was sure he could get his shoulders through it if he took off his jacket.

“Did Johnny Storm pass through here?” a voice, high and snooty, asked.

“Who?”

At any other time, Johnny would have been appalled.  As things were, he only paused for a fraction of a second before continuing his struggle with the rusted window latch.

“Blond? Hot? Voice of an angel? He has the most viewed music video of the past five years?”

“Third of all time,” a new voice chimed in.

“Right…well. As you can see, there’s just us here.”

“What’s back there?” the first voice asked.

“The kitchen. And it’s staff only. Listen, are any of you actually going to order? Because you’re kinda blocking the door and disturbing the customers. You know. The ones who actually pay for things.”

“As if anyone’s going to come here when there’s a Starbucks down the street,” a third fan sniffed.

Johnny braced his feet far apart and gave the latch another mighty tug. He felt something start to give and doubled his efforts. _Come on, let me outta here—_

And something _did_ give, finally. The latch didn’t just fly open. It snapped right off.

_Crap._

Johnny tossed it aside and pushed the window up, anyway. Behind him, he could hear the employee yelling, “Our coffee’s better than their pedestrian swill! You people just have no taste!” as the door chimed again.

Johnny was perched on the sink and peering cautiously at the alley outside the window when he heard the throat being cleared behind him. He froze.

“They’re gone.”

“Oh. That’s great,” Johnny said with a weak smile of relief, turning his head and looking the guy in the face.  With his identity already exposed, there was no longer any need to keep his face turned down. He just hoped this guy wouldn’t make a fuss over it.

The man didn’t smile back and instead narrowed hazel eyes at him. The light streaming in from the window made them look like small pools of honey, and Johnny’s brain, finally free of panic, caught up. He took in the half-tousled dark hair, the serious furrow between his thick brows, and the wiry frame beneath his apron.

_Oh no. He’s cute._

The serious furrow turned into an angry scowl. “Did you break the _window_?”

 

 

“I am really, _really_ sorry,” Johnny repeated for what felt like the hundredth time while the employee — _Peter_ , his nameplate pinned to the front of his apron proclaimed — wiped a newly vacated table clean. “I’ll pay for the repairs—”

Peter gave a derisive snort.

“Okay, what’s _that_ about?” Johnny asked, frustrated. “I’m good for it. Ask anyone. And I’ll throw in extra for a new espresso machine or something. You really saved me back then.”

“Of _course_ , you think this is just a matter of throwing money at something,” Peter said, pausing to glare fiercely at him.

“What do you _want_?”

Peter stopped and threw the rag he was using onto the table. “How about ‘sorry’ and maybe ‘thank you’? After all, I _did_ help you. I think I deserve that more than you breaking my window and trying to sneak off without a word.”

“Alright, alright,” Johnny said, holding his hands out placatingly. “I’m sorry I broke your window and I’m sorry I tried to run off without thanking you. Speaking of which, _thank you_ for getting them off my back.”

Peter studied him for a minute, as if attempting to discern the exact level of his sincerity. He picked up his rag again. “Fine.”

“Okay, now _please_ let me pay for the window?”

“You don’t need to. It’s just a latch. I can fix it myself.”

Johnny stopped, taken aback. “Oh. So…we’re good?”

“No…you said you’d ‘owe me, like, a million _,’_ and that’s a direct quote.”

“Look, man, I know what I said. But I don’t actually have a million lying around—”

Peter frowned at him. “Not _money_ , idiot. I assumed you meant favors.”

Johnny eyed him warily. “Y-Yeah…Not sure I can do a million favors, either, but you gotta know that was hyperbole, right?”

“You’re the only one in this conversation trying to take everything literally.”

Johnny threw his hands up, thoroughly confused. “Okay, fine. What do you want? If it’s a signature you wanna sell online—”

“No.”

“And contrary to what the tabloids say, I’m _not_ that easy.” He paused. “Okay, I’m _kinda_ easy, but I’m also picky. It depends—”

Peter was giving him the stink eye. “It’s not _that_ kind of favor!”

Johnny stopped. “I can give you my autograph? Is that it? I have a pen here somewhere…”

Peter sighed exasperatedly. “Are you a coffee person or a tea person?”

“Um. What?”

“Coffee or tea?” Peter repeated, more slowly, his eyes never leaving Johnny’s face.

“Both are okay?” Johnny said.

“Sit.”

Johnny sat.

Peter looked vaguely pleased before sauntering back to his place behind the counter.

Johnny waited for a couple minutes, restless and fidgety, as Peter started working, presumably on a drink for him. Which…didn’t make sense. Why would making Johnny a drink count as doing _Peter_ a favor?

Johnny bounced his leg, then twiddled his thumbs, then started humming under his breath. He opened his mouth.

“Just one more minute,” Peter said before he can even get any words out.

Johnny pulled out his phone and started a text message to his sister, just in case Peter was attempting to poison him.

 _Hey sis. I’m at a coffee shop in Queens_  
_DON’T ASK and this scruffy barista is cute_  
_but if I don’t text you again in 15 minutes_  
_then he probably poisoned me._

_Just FYI._

A tray appeared on the table and was pushed in his direction.

Johnny looked at the three drinks and the small glass of water arrayed in front of him, blinked up at Peter, and looked down again. “What’s all this?”

Peter slid into the seat across from him. “Blend one. Blend two. Blend three,” he said, tapping each cup in turn. “Drink.”

“What’s in them?” Johnny asked suspiciously.

“Just coffee. Come on. I need someone to try these and if _I_ drink any more, I’m never sleeping for the rest of my _life_ , which will probably be very short. Drink.”

Johnny’s instincts were to argue and be contrary, so he was pretty surprised when his hand seemed to move on its own to pick up the first cup. He pursed his lips thoughtfully, tried to recall every morning show with a cooking segment he’s ever seen, and attempted to form a coherent comment. “It’s smooth? And kind of has hints of butterscotch that’s—”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Yeah, thanks. I just need a ranking not a six-paragraph essay for the _Bugle_.”

“Oh.” Johnny took a sip of the glass of water before moving on to the next cup. “You know, you’d probably get more customers if you worked on your attitude.”

“The regulars love me,” he said, straight-faced, as he gestured widely to indicate everyone currently there with them.

“Only because you give us coffee and leave us alone,” a customer at the far end of the counter muttered.

“Shut up, Bobby.”

Bobby rolled his eyes at Johnny in wordless solidarity and turned back to the video game running on his laptop.

Johnny smirked and tipped the liquid into his mouth. Heaven on his tongue. The bitterness was even smoother, with a sweetness that reminded him of caramel and honey, and had hardly any of the usual acidic bite. He swallowed slowly, letting it linger, and took another gulp. “What the hell is _this_?”

“Coffee, how many times do I gotta say it?”

Johnny set it down and reluctantly reached for the water. “How does some tiny no-name coffee shop in Queens have coffee like _that_? What kind of beans—?”

Peter shushed him with a wave of his hand. “Last cup, please.”

Johnny tried it, and while it was an excellent cup, with a hint of spice, it was nowhere near as good as the second one. “Look, I don’t even care, I will pay you a hundred bucks to supply me with whatever’s in that second cup for the rest of my life.”

Peter pulled out a pen and a small pad from his apron pocket and made a note. “Okay, which one’s the worst?”

Johnny pointed to the first cup. “But it’s still pretty good.”

Peter put his pen and paper back in his pocket. “Thanks.”

Johnny blinked in surprise as he stood and moved to collect the tray. “Is—Is that it? Is that all you want?”

“I’m writing a paper and I needed more data. I still do, but you’ve helped a bit. So, thanks.”

“You’re writing a paper…on coffee? Barista school sounds complicated.”

Peter flicked him an irritated glance. “Grad school. Food science and organic chemistry. So not barista school, no,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm.  “And the paper has a lot more science involved. This bit is just for…flavor.”

“That was bad,” Johnny said pityingly.

“I didn’t actually set out to pun,” Peter admitted, turning away.

Johnny scrambled to his feet and followed him to the counter. “I was serious, by the way.”

“About what?”

“A hundred dollars to get more of that in my mouth.”

“I’m really not that kind of guy.”

“Stop it,” Johnny scowled, leaning over the counter.

“A hundred dollars won’t get you a lifetime supply.”

“What will?” Johnny asked, desperate.

“You can come over and pay two dollars like a normal person and I’ll give you a cup, any time you want—that’s how it works.”

“Come here. To your tiny, severely unfashionable coffee shop with zero personality and terrible lighting.”

Peter didn’t even blink. “We’re open from six a.m. until midnight.”

Johnny stared at him. Peter stared right back. Finally, Johnny sighed and reached for his wallet. “Two dollars. Now _please_ give me my damn coffee.”

Peter’s features broke out into a crooked grin — the first smile Johnny had seen on his face since he set foot inside the shop — and something inside Johnny cracked.

 _Ah, crap,_ he thought, recognizing the faint fluttering in the pit of his stomach as he watched Peter start up a brew.   _I didn’t need this at all._

 

 

“I’m back,” Johnny said, standing in front of Peter at his register.  Johnny had waffled and hesitated twice along the way but in the end had given in. The pull of amazing coffee was worth the risk of going back out in public in the same neighborhood for the second day in a row.  Johnny took extra precautions, however, wearing his droopiest fishing hat and oversized sunglasses.

“Congratulations, hot shot.  You didn’t get lost,” Peter deadpanned.

Johnny frowned at him. “Hey. Lots of other establishments would be happy to have me.”

“I’d be happy to have your money?”

Johnny rolled his eyes and handed over the cash. “Seriously, do you not have customer service training or whatever?”

“Dude. This isn’t a chain store,” Peter said, busying himself with Johnny’s coffee.  “You can _try_ complaining about me, if it’ll make you feel better.”

“I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble for real.”

“Trust me, you won’t,” Peter said, sliding Johnny’s mug over to him.

Johnny hesitated, glanced discreetly at the only other customer current in the shop — a young girl watching something intently on her phone — and sat down at the counter. “Tastes just the same as it did yesterday,” Johnny said after the first sip, smiling.

“Hmm. So is it really as good as you remember?” Peter asked, mouth twitching as if suppressing a smile, and Johnny hated him. Hated how sure of his own skills he seemed, to the point of smugness. Hated that glimmer of amusement in his brown eyes. He had never met anyone so utterly _not_ starstruck in his presence and Johnny didn’t know what to do. Most of the time, his appearance alone was enough, never mind his actual celebrity status.

“Barista’s just as annoying as I remember, too.”

“Sorry. Do you want me to ask for your autograph? Sleep with it under my pillow?”

“You should at least check out my music video. It would put you in the same era as the rest of the world.”

“I’ve seen your music video, Mr. Storm.”

Johnny’s mouth fell slightly open. “But—I thought you didn’t—”

“I was just trying to rile your fans up,” Peter admitted. “And maybe you. Just a little.”

“Just a little,” Johnny echoed.

Peter smirked.

Johnny said nothing, just took another sip of the heavenly coffee and tried his best not to be unreasonably attracted.

Peter turned away and started doing barista stuff—scooping out carefully measured amounts of beans from various sacks and mixing them in a tin before pouring them all into a grinder.

The machine was humming diligently and Peter had fallen to reading a book he’d taken out of his apron pocket when the bell over the door chimed. Johnny heard the footsteps and the rush of air that came with someone running and tensed. Peter gave him a curious glance at his reaction.

“Peter, Peter, Peter!” The newcomer cried excitedly, shattering the relative silence of the coffee shop, relegating the grinder’s noise to the background. Johnny exhaled slowly and let himself relax.

“MJ? Oof!” Peter grunted as a redhead rounded the counter and launched herself at him. Johnny caught a half-second grin on his serious face before he buried it in red hair, arms going around the woman hugging him enthusiastically and squeezing her back. “Hey, not that it’s not nice to see you, but uh—”

MJ pulled away, breathless, and beamed at him. Johnny cocked his head. She was stunning, and there was something familiar about her. “I got it! I got the part!”

“Whoa! Congratulations!”

MJ went back around the counter and dropped into the seat next to Johnny’s. “I want the fanciest drink in the house. I’m celebrating.”

Peter snorted but quickly went to work.

MJ glanced around the coffee shop cheerfully, her eyes finally alighting on Johnny, who’d been trying _not_ to get caught studying her out of the corner of his eye. She paused, brow furrowing. “Hey. I’ve seen your face before.”

At the same moment, something clicked. Of _course_ she looked familiar. She had billboards advertising make-up all over the city. “Mary Jane Watson?”

“Johnny Storm?”

“Wow, it’s like Hollywood in here,” Peter said with his characteristic dryness, setting down a red drink with far too much whipped cream and chocolate syrup and edible gold dust _and_ marshmallows in front of MJ.

MJ glanced at him, amused. “Looks like you’ve snagged another one, Pete.”

“I really don’t know why. Maybe this place is cursed.”

Johnny frowned at the two of them. “Another one? Cursed?”

“It’s the industrial strength coffee disguised as something fancy and delicious,” MJ says knowingly. “And I meant another celebrity. Millie started coming in here two weeks ago—”

“Because _you_ told her about the coffee.”

MJ waved a hand. “Yes, but she didn’t have to _keep_ coming. And I’m pretty sure I saw Tony Stark’s personal assistant getting a half dozen coffees the other day.”

Johnny blinked at Peter, suddenly feeling small. No wonder he was so unimpressed. What was a YouTube sensation and pop singer marketed to appeal to teens compared to supermodels and billionaires?

“Don’t let anybody tell him an Osborn owns this place, I _like_ getting fifty-dollar tips,” Peter muttered.

Johnny hadn’t tipped him. _Crap._

“Anyway. Johnny Storm,” MJ smiled at him. “Somehow, the camera fails to do you justice.”

“He’s shorter than I expected, though,” Peter countered.

Johnny, just starting to bask in MJ’s praise, immediately deflated. “We’re the same height!”

“Nuh-uh. I’m taller.”

MJ snickered through her straw. “Aw, you guys are in love.”

“I am not!” Johnny denied, a bit too vehemently, he realized, when they both raised their eyebrows at him. Johnny pushed away his empty mug, aware that his face must be the color of a fire engine. “Anyway, I’m done. It was nice meeting you, Mary Jane.”

She looked surprised. “Hey, I was just teasing. I’m sorry if I—”

“It’s fine. I just have to go,” Johnny mumbled, heading for the door.

“See you tomorrow,” Peter called after him, the smirk still evident in his voice.

Johnny almost told him that he wouldn’t but wasn’t sure if it would be a lie.

 

 

Peter was sitting in a booth, still in his work uniform of burgundy shirt and black apron, when Johnny came in the next day.  The table was stacked high with books, notebooks and loose sheets littered the surface, and an open laptop was off to one side.  

The register was unmanned. Johnny stood by it and cleared his throat.

Peter looked up blearily, and Johnny noticed the heavy circles under his eyes. He shuffled behind the counter and stifled a yawn. “The same as before?”

“I’m feeling like a Vienna coffee today, actually,” Johnny said. “Think you can manage that?”

Peter gave him a flinty stare. “Say something like that again and I’m banning you.”

Johnny grinned then frowned in concern at another yawn. “Are you all right?”

“Have to finish my paper,” Peter mumbled, fingers moving with less than their usual deftness.

“Is this the coffee paper?”

Peter shook his head. “That one’s for my Master’s degree. This one is just for publication.”

“Where do you even find the time?” Johnny asked, amazed.

“I steal it from sleep,” Peter shrugged, blinking and focusing just enough to make the whipped cream on Johnny’s drink swirl prettily.“Here you go.”

“Maybe you need a dose of your own medicine,” Johnny said, raising his drink to his face.

“I’ve had three cups already,” Peter said with a hollow laugh. “This is me on a caffeine crash.”

“I should let you get back to work,” Johnny said, and headed for a table. He nodded politely at Bobby, who was sitting behind a laptop with his earphones plugged in, and sat down. Johnny also saw the girl from yesterday at another table, still engrossed in her phone. Johnny felt warm. He was recognizing people. He was starting to be a _regular_. Peter hadn’t even insulted him. Johnny ignored the small voice saying it was only because Peter was just a heartbeat away from being a zombie.

Speaking of which, Peter was staring at him from across the aisle, mouth half-open. Johnny wondered if Peter had zoned out and started making faces at him.

Peter made a noise that was half squeak and half groan and got up.

Johnny blinked in alarm as the other guy marched towards him with a scowl. “What? What—?”

Peter’s fingers were suddenly on his face. Johnny froze. Gently, Peter’s thumb brushed upwards, from the corner of his mouth and towards his cheek. “You got whipped cream on your face,” he said. “Seriously, you’re supposed to be this super-cool sophisticated star, aren’t you?”

Johnny opened his mouth but no sound came out.

Peter licked the whipped cream off his thumb, and while Johnny could tell he meant nothing by it, it sent a shot through Johnny’s spine nevertheless.

“Guh.”

Peter gave him a weird look. “You okay, Storm?”

Johnny nodded wordlessly, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. _Please lick_ me _. Please please—_

Peter frowned at him and headed back to his table. Johnny tried to stare at anything besides his ass. He failed spectacularly, but he didn’t mind at all.

 

 

It was just the coffee, Johnny thought when he found himself outside Peter’s coffee shop for the nth day in a row. It would be a lie to say he’d lost count.  He’d just stopped counting because, frankly, it was embarrassing. He consoled himself with the notion that any caffeine addict would probably be just a little bit in love with their coffee dealer, and baristas were just automatically hotter when they were drizzling caramel all over someone’s whipped cream.  It couldn’t possibly be because of something so stupid as Johnny _actually_ starting to fall for some guy he barely knew for some indiscernible reason.

Peter’s grin when he saw Johnny was annoyingly confident, and suddenly Johnny didn’t even care anymore. None of it mattered. He was aware that he was being ridiculously transparent, and that all it would take was for one of the customers who happened to be in at the time to be an asshole and he would have a scandal in his hands, but none of that mattered to him now.

“The usual, or are you feeling more adventurous today?” Peter asked, straightening his apron. He still had that stupid smile on his face and it was making Johnny’s stomach do backflips.

 _Is that supposed to mean something?_ Johnny wanted to scream. Peter had been dropping lines like that since the day they met but every time Johnny tried to play along, he’d double back and act completely innocent. A voice in the back of his head told him that it wasn’t supposed to be this way. He was _Johnny Fucking Storm_ . People threw themselves at _him_ . _He_ was the one who took the lead and flirted shamelessly, not the one who was constantly confused and floundering for the appropriate comeback.

 _He’s not even_ that _hot_ , Johnny thought crossly. Just cute in an ordinary way. The only remarkable features on his face were his bushy eyebrows and a dusting of freckles across his nose. It was a _pleasant_ face. Johnny could stare at it. (Johnny _did_ stare at it. A _lot_ .) But it wasn’t the kind of attention-grabbing special like Johnny’s own, or like those of any of the dozen or more models and stars he knew and probably _should_ have been developing massive insurmountable crushes on instead.

Peter’s smile faded. “Is something wrong?”

Johnny blinked. “What?”

“You’re kinda glaring at me.”

“Give me an iced americano,” Johnny said, schooling his expression into one hopefully more neutral.

“Feeling hot, today?”

“Yeah,” Johnny squeezed out. “Summer. You know.”

It was October and Peter gave him a funny look before going to work.

The door chimed and Johnny looked over his shoulder. He caught a glimpse of an older lady, her hair completely white, before he remembered to duck and hide his face.

Peter was turning around with Johnny’s drink when he caught sight of the new customer. Interestingly, his mouth dropped open and his fingers went slack.

“Pete—!”

Johnny’s warning was cut off by the plastic cup hitting the floor and exploding all over Peter’s shoes.

“Ah, shit,” said Peter.

“Peter!” said the white-haired woman, coming over with a frown, her tone scolding and familiar. “What will your customers think?”

Johnny didn’t point out that it was only the three of them and Bobby (whose opinion, Johnny had learned, never counted) in the shop.

“Sorry,” Peter muttered. He looked at Johnny. “Sorry about your coffee.  Give me a couple minutes and I’ll make a new one?”

Johnny nodded and wandered off to sit at the nearest empty table.

“Hi, Aunt May,” Peter said, stepping around the counter to give the woman a hug. “You surprised me. What are you doing here?”

She held up a paper bag. “You forgot your scarf when you came by to change the living room light, dear. Since I’m meeting a friend near here, I thought I’d bring it over.”

Peter’s ears turned red. Johnny filed away that interesting tidbit. “You didn’t have to…Wait. There’s more than just a scarf in here?”

“You need to eat better, dear,” his aunt said, patting him on the cheek. “Well, I won’t keep you from your work. Give me call later?”

“Sure, Aunt May. And thank you.”

Johnny had never seen him so nice and polite before. He was shuffling his feet and ducking his head and ruffling the hair on the back of his head, a self-conscious habit that explained why it was always a mess back there.

It was so fucking adorable, it was aggravating.

Peter hugged his Aunt May and waved until she left, the door falling shut behind her. But then the soft smile disappeared and the usual furrow in his brow came back.

Johnny opened his mouth.

“Not a word,” Peter said. “Or I’m not making your coffee.”

Johnny shut up but snickered softly to himself.

“You know, I really wouldn’t push him,” Bobby whispered. “He cut off this dude, Logan, once. It wasn’t pretty. He was halfway up the counter before someone dragged him back and Peter didn’t give a shit.”

The coffee had to be made from magic beans, Johnny decided, if everyone wanted it so much in spite of the manner in which it was delivered.

“Does everyone know everyone else who comes here?” Johnny asked instead.

“There aren’t that many of us,” Bobby shrugged.

“Iced Americano,” Peter called, louder than necessary.

Johnny rushed over to claim his drink before Peter could change his mind, handing over his credit card for him to swipe.

Peter went through the motions as Johnny sipped his drink thoughtfully.

“Hey.”

Peter paused to look at him questioningly.

Johnny gave him a wobbly smile. “Go out with me?”

Two tables over, Bobby choked on his mocha frappe.

Peter frowned, shoved Johnny’s credit card at him, and said, enunciating very clearly and firmly so that Johnny’s heart crumbled into the finest dust, “No.”

 

 

The worst part was that Johnny shooting himself in the foot resulted in him being forced to drink Starbucks for _three days_ and it just wasn’t the same. He’d gotten used to Peter’s coffee, in all its different forms, and nothing could compare.  He could have tried going at an earlier time when he knew Peter wouldn’t be there, but Johnny had never been a morning person, only ever hauling himself out of bed just in time for any work he had to do. Finally, on the fourth day and after a recording session that left him tired and frustrated, Johnny hit his limit.

“You want me to get you coffee _where_?”

There was a hint of indignation in his sister’s voice and Johnny hastily tried to reframe his initial request more politely.

“I would really appreciate it, Sue, my darling sister, if you could please get me a cup of coffee from this really great place in Queens.”

“You want _me_ to go all the way over there for a cup of coffee. Do you realize how crazy you sound? You can make coffee right here, at home!”

“But it’s not the same! Look, I’ll even drive you over? You just need to go in and buy it for me.”

Sue’s face did that thing Johnny hated, where it went all smug when she _thought_ she knew what was up. “Okay, fine. Get your keys and let’s go.”

Johnny almost changed his mind several times on the way over, Sue’s curiosity and obvious glee that her brother was probably in some kind of shit _again_ was almost unbearable. But before he knew it, they were there, and Sue was bounding out of the car.

Johnny drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He could see his sister’s back through the door, but the glare on the glass made it impossible to tell if Peter was inside. He sighed, leaned back in his seat, and closed his eyes as he waited.

The door opened a few minutes later and Sue got back in, two cups of coffee in her hands.

“I totally understand, baby brother,” said Sue solemnly. “This coffee? Is _amazing_.”

“Right?!” Johnny said, taking the cup she handed him.

“The barista who didn’t poison you is adorable, too,” she added blandly.

Johnny was about to tell her to shut up when someone knocked on her window. Johnny recognized the apron and his heart dropped to his stomach like a stone.

Sue lowered the glass. “Hi.”

Peter saw Johnny miserably trying to melt into the steering wheel and hesitated for a fraction of a second. “You forgot your change,” he told Sue, voice level and devoid of inflection.

“Oh! Thank you so much,” Sue said. “But you know what, you can keep it as a tip, since you’re so nice.”

Peter frowned. “But you gave me a fifty—”

“It’s fine,” Sue said, already starting to raise the window. “Have a nice day!”

Johnny hit the gas before Peter could throw the change at the car. “You did that on purpose,” he said accusingly.

“Did I? I’m just forgetful sometimes,” Sue lied, wide-eyed.

“Sure you are.”

“So tell me why you haven’t asked him out yet.”

“I _did_.”

Sue’s eyebrows flew up. “And?”

“And he said no.”

Silence.

“Want me to take that tip back?”

 _“No.”_ Johnny laughed a little. “No. It’s not his fault. I must have completely misread— I mean, not _everyone’s_ going to like me.  And, you know. He’s probably straight. There’s this supermodel...”

His voice faded away and Sue gave his hand on the gearshift a gentle pat. “Let’s go home and make ourselves sick on ice cream and you can tell me _all_ about it. Deal?”

It was better than his plan of going straight to bed and never getting up again. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

 

 

An album signing and a meet-and-greet brought Johnny back to the same neighborhood in Queens. On the very same street, in fact. The record store was only a couple of blocks away from the coffee shop, and Johnny eyed it as his chauffeured car passed. He hadn’t been by in at least a week, even though Sue kept buying him coffee from there. He suspected she was actually scoping out Peter on his behalf, but he never asked.

“Johnny, you okay?”

He shook himself out his reverie and turned to Jian, the assistant his label hired for him when he first signed on, and forced a smile. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

She looked a little doubtful but let it slide. “Try not to get carried away with doing fan requests this time, okay? I know you always want to be nice to them, especially for more intimate events like this, but the rules _are_ there for your own protection, you know.”

“Hey. I’ve been doing this for five years, remember?”

“I remember. But you never seem to learn.”

Johnny snorted. “I’ll be good today, I promise.”

And Johnny was, for the most part. He only broke out in song upon request twice, aware of being recorded on several dozen cellphones, and knew it would be all over YouTube before the signing even ended, with the probability of him being accosted upon leaving increasing exponentially.

The rest of the time he dutifully signed copies of his own album as it was presented to him, posed for pictures, and shook hands. It was a routine, with Jian and a few bodyguards watching them all like hawks, and Johnny found his attention wandering.

The monotony was shattered by a paper cup sliding towards him instead of a plastic CD case, and Johnny blinked at it, bewildered.

“Sir, you need to have a copy of the album,” he heard Jian say, as if from very far away. “You can buy one right now, of course—”

“I’d really rather he sign my coffee cup,” said a familiar voice and Johnny’s head snapped up.

Jian opened her mouth, one hand already motioning one of the guards forward, and Johnny hastily made a grab for the cup.

“I’ll sign it,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’ll sign anything you want.”

“You sure you can make promises like that?” Peter asked under his breath as Johnny scrawled his name.

Johnny didn’t trust himself to speak. He turned the cup over and over in his hands, frowning. There were black marks along the bottom and for a moment he felt just a little offended that Peter hadn’t even gotten a clean cup for him to sign. But then he was here and not pretending Johnny didn’t exist.

What did it mean?

Johnny bit his lip and scrawled the same generic message he’d written on every CD before handing it back.

Peter frowned at it, saluted Johnny with it, and walked out of the store.

“Who was that?” Jian asked him quietly, ignoring Johnny’s mental pleading for her not to.

Johnny was disappointed to discover that he wasn’t telepathic and said, through a frozen smile for the next fan in line, “I’ve never seen him before.”

“Sure. And you just wrote his name on his paper cup without you even asking. Peter, was it?”

“He’s no one.”

Jian sighed. “Just don’t do anything stupid like get photographed making out on a balcony or something.”

“What do you have against making out on balconies?”

“Me, personally? Nothing, apart from the danger of falling. Your label? A lot, probably. You’re not that kind of star.”

Johnny was well aware what kind of star he was supposed to be, seeing the teenagers in the line that wound round and round the tiny record store like a game of snake about to end. He didn’t respond and kept on smiling, kept on signing, and kept on shaking hands.

 

 

Johnny raced to the coffee shop as soon as the signing was over. Jian would panic and then would threaten to kill him and Johnny promised himself to send her a hundred flowers and maybe a truckload of chocolates to make up for it, but he had to go.

He ducked inside Peter’s shop in his usual disguise of fishing hat and sunglasses and frantically looked around.

The barista behind the register looked at him curiously, and Johnny’s heart sank in disappointment at the realization that it wasn’t Peter but some guy with frizzy auburn hair and an obscenely expensive preppy outfit that Peter wouldn’t be caught dead in.

“Hi,” Preppy Guy greeted him cheerfully, the perfect picture of warm and accommodating. “What can I get you this fine afternoon?”

“Um...”

“Hey. What are you doing here?” a voice asked from down the counter and Johnny turned to look.

Bobby. A familiar face, thank goodness. Johnny rushed over to him. “Hey, what’s going on? Where’s Pete? Who’s this guy?”

Bobby blinked at him, puzzled. “Uh, first: nothing, besides you freaking out. Second, he went out to meet you, and third, that’s the owner. Harry Osborn.”

Johnny glanced out of the corner of his eye at Harry, who had the air of someone struggling to listen in on a conversation while trying not to be too obvious about it. “Wait, wait—What do you mean he went out to meet me? He went to my signing and left right away. He didn’t come back?”

Bobby looked even more confused. “He did. And then he said he was going to meet you.”

Johnny wanted to rip his own hair out. Peter hadn’t said anything about meeting him. Peter had just waved that coffee cup in his face—

The coffee cup. Johnny had been too out of it to examine it closely, but there had been those black squiggles on the underside of it that could have been writing and—oh my God, Johnny was an idiot.

“He—He didn’t happen to say where, did he?”

Bobby shook his head slowly. “Dude.”

Johnny sank into a stool and buried his face in his hands.

“Hey,” Harry Osborn’s voice said, briefly distracting Johnny from trying to melt into the floor.

He looked up, hopeful.

“If you’re looking for Peter, he’ll come back.”

“What?”

“He has to close up. I can’t do the books as fast as he can,” Harry said.

“Oh.” Johnny blinked. “Oh. Um...I’ll just wait at a table in the back, then?”

“Can’t stay if you’re not buying anything, though.”

Johnny stared at him.

Harry stared right back, still smiling pleasantly, like a shark would if it was happy.

Johnny sighed and took out his wallet. “I’ll pay for an entire pot and just pour it out for me in increments. How’s that?”

“It’s your brain,” Harry said, and gleefully took his money.

 

 

Four hours later, Johnny wondered if Peter’s coffee paper had covered the effects of too much caffeine. He was starting to have regrets.

He dropped his head onto his corner table and moaned.

“Refill?”

“God, no. Please—”

Wait a minute. That hadn’t been Osborn’s voice. That was—

Johnny pushed himself upright so fast, his chair started to tip over backwards.

Surprisingly strong arms arrested his fall, grabbing the back of his chair and pulling him back up, the front legs of his chair crashing on the floor and jarring his teeth.

Johnny’s heart started beating a thousand times a minute, and he wasn’t sure if it was the caffeine, his near accident, or Peter’s wide-eyed face only inches from his own.

“Careful,” Peter said softly. “Wouldn’t want you to fall now.”

 _It’s a little too late for that,_ Johnny thought hysterically.  “Peter.”

He straightened up, drew the chair next to his, and sat down. “You stood me up.”

“I’m sorry,” Johnny said before he had even finished. “I didn’t read it. I saw it, I just didn’t think—”

“It’s okay,” Peter said quickly. “I should have known it would be too subtle for you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Johnny objected.

Peter gave his disguise a pointed look up and down, pausing to take in Johnny’s artfully ripped jeans. “What do you think?”

Johnny flushed. “Okay. I’m an idiot. Can we move on?”

“I waited in the park for two whole hours,” Peter said, leaning back in his chair and looking up at the ceiling. “I thought you probably hated me.”

“I’ve been here _four_ hours. What the hell?”

“I had a class,” Peter shrugged. “I’m sorry.”

Johnny shook his head. “No. No, it’s fine. I mean, you waited in line just to get me to sign your damn coffee cup—”

“I didn’t wait long,” he mumbled, and there was that sheepish neck rub again.  The one that shouldn’t be so adorable but was.

Johnny stared at him, jaw dropping. “You cut in line.”

“I cut in line.”

“How did you manage that without a teenage girl punching you in the face?”

“I brought coffee for the ten people right behind me. We bonded immediately.”

“Cutting in line and _bribery_. I‘m impressed.” And stupidly flattered, but he didn’t want to say it out loud.

Peter laughed. He actually laughed, and Johnny couldn’t stop a grin from showing on his face anymore.

Johnny leaned forward. “Peter.”

His laughter faded abruptly into a small, curious smile.

Johnny shifted his weight nervously and threw himself head-first into the next sentence. “Will you go out on a date with me?”

Peter stopped smiling entirely, but his eyes were still warm. “You know why I turned you down the first time?”

“No. To be honest, I was too shocked to think.”

“Yeah. I figured you don’t really get that a lot, and that’s part of why I felt I had to do it.”

“You said no…because you wanted me to know what rejection felt like?” Johnny asked incredulously.

“I said no because I’m a petty asshole,” Peter shrugged. “And I don’t like the idea of being jerked around by someone like you.”

“But I wasn’t—”

“I know, okay? I was wrong about you. I got as much from your sister.”

Johnny’s brain short-circuited. “Sue?” Sue had kept coming to the café but Johnny never thought she was actually speaking to Peter about him. “What…What did she say about me? And if she told you a story that started with me falling into a pond when I was five, it was all lies.”

“She did, actually. Among other stories that I never asked for. She’d just start…talking. And it was incredibly annoying at first but then eventually I got the point.”

“What point?”

“That I was wrong. That I didn’t know you. That…maybe I should.”

Johnny felt his own jaw drop.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is, do _you_ still want to go out with _me_?”

Johnny’s smile was so wide his face hurt.  “You know, you’re rude and annoying, and maybe if you took away the mind-blowing coffee, I’d hate you, but for now I like you. I like you a lot. So I guess the answer is yes.”

Peter blinked at him. “Anyone ever tell you you like the sound of your own voice too much?”

“Oh my _God_.”

“Like, yes, is one syllable. You drew it out for three sentences, one of which was overly long—”

Johnny kissed him, catching him by surprise, his mouth half-open.  He tasted like coffee. Of course.

Peter pulled away, soft lips drawn into a small frown. “Are you sure you should be doing this sort of thing in public?”

Johnny looked around.  The coffee shop was nearly empty. Just him and Peter and Harry Osborn who was pretending not to watch.

“Johnny?”

Johnny didn’t care.  They could have been in a packed Starbucks for all that it mattered.  Johnny wanted to kiss him, and he wanted to be kissed. That was it. That was everything.

“Peter—You know what, I don’t think I know your last name,” he mused.

“Parker. My name is Peter Parker,” Peter said, eyes shining with laughter. “And I can’t believe you kissed a guy whose name you don’t even know. I guess it’s a whole different world when you’re a celebrity. MJ says you Hollywood-types are _wild_.”

Johnny groaned, dropping his head on Peter’s shoulder.  “I really, _really_ should hate you.”

“But you don’t.”

“It’s the coffee.”

“My secret weapon,” Peter said, and reached under the table. He found Johnny’s hand, threaded fingers through his, and smiled.

Johnny peered up at him. “A shot through the heart.”

“No.”

“You really know how to espresso yourself.”

“Please stop.”

Johnny waggled his eyebrows. “You and I could be the perfect blend.”

Peter tried to pull his hand away but Johnny wouldn’t let him. “We haven’t gone out on a first date yet and I already want to break up with you.”

“I like you a latte?”

“Shut up, shut up, _shut. Up.”_

“Make me.”

This time it was Peter who kissed him, hand curling around the back of Johnny’s neck, warm and strong.  He still tasted of coffee, black as night but with a hint of sweet.

Johnny leaned in.  He’d quickly gotten used to Peter’s cappuccinos and lattes and cold brews.  And it would be easy — _so_  easy — to get used to this, too.


End file.
